Unchained Melody-Elvis 2022

Haunted

"Priscilla is right. This story is spreading like wildfire. What happens if it runs out of fuel and the press turns to Parker?"

Ice raked through her, glassy eyes set forward into the flickering flames while an unwelcome chill produced gooseflesh across her body. For a moment, she was completely still, unmoving while the world seemed to rush by. She was caught in amber, viewing everything around her but unable to act despite the desperate rhythm in her chest and the all-consuming fear of what if? whispered her way. "I won't let that happen," Evie grated. "He won't get a single breath in if I have any say about it. I want to see that bastard nailed to the wall."

Her voice was even despite the faint rasp. Anyone else would have missed the way mentioning the colonel inspired a blaze in her soul, the grinding of teeth, but her small audience could see the torment in her eyes and the flickering haze between blinks as she wrung her hands.

The two shared a knowing glance. She was slipping.

"Trust me, there's plenty more information to leak. No shortage of candids slid under my door or rumors whispered among crowds between shows... We stick to the story."

She didn't catch the way Jerry's jaw had ticked at her words, how his gaze shifted back to her ghostly shape while she darted aimlessly around the room in a repeated back-and-forth pattern. But she recognized the underlying frustration in his tone—the same edge he always used when she had unwittingly peeved him in some way, regardless of the magnitude of her offense—when his mouth opened again. "And what is the story?"

She didn't miss a beat, shooting back her own snipped response. "You've read the papers."

"No," Jerry forced, the single syllable rattling Evie's senses. "The real story. Not the lies being fed to the media on a spoon. What really happened between you and E.P.?"

At this, both women in the room tensed with the intrusive flash of images of years past. Not so much was this reaction born of a desire to forget their shared lover, but rather the ache that came with remembering—Evangeline still cried herself to sleep, only to dream of him every night—too difficult to bear, especially in the presence of another.

The blonde tried not to fault Jerry for the minor inconsideration—how could he possibly understand? Yet she couldn't keep the bite from her rushed reply. "No."

"N-no?" He asked, as though he was unfamiliar with the word, as if he hadn't just thrown it in her face less than thirty seconds before.

"No." Her eyes leapt to Priscilla, who had returned to inspecting her manicure, and back to the male in the room. "That's off limits."

But Jerry's patience had been thinning with the storm, no more than a drizzle against fogged windows now. He'd lost one friend already. He wouldn't lose another to her own stubbornness. "Damn it, Evie,"—he slammed his hand against the armrest, shoving himself to his feet—"We've kept our heads down out of respect, but this is eating you up and you know it!" He paused, holding her troubled stare. The heat in his glower was melting her armor. "It's going to ruin you, and I won't stand by and watch."

"Maybe talking about it will help?" The small brunette voiced, but Evie doubted she could believe the words coming from her own mouth. Cilla had suffered too. She understood pain as her cousin did. She understood that burying the hurt was far easier than putting it on display, accepting sorry pats on the back and pitying stares from friends and strangers alike.